


Leaking the Secrets

by Omorka



Category: Ghostbusters (1984)
Genre: College, Jock-Geek, M/M, Slash, Teacher-Student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Egon discovers that earning his second doctorate in the social sciences is going to be trickier than he realized when he meets a young undergrad athlete named Peter Venkman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaking the Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place well before the first movie (no spoilers). Okay, we've all read this story before in the RGB slashfandom; good gods, I think everyone writes their own take on it. But this prompt was for the movie version, so here's mine. Original prompt: "Peter acts like the dumb jock; Egon is pretty sure he isn't," from LJ's Rounds of Kink challenge Round 12.

Dr. Harth looked over her huge, round-lensed spectacles at the three graduate students in front of her. The youngest of them, a scrawny kid with long, greasy blond hair and a scraggly beard that just screamed "hippie," fidgeted slightly under her gaze. The other two exchanged a glance; they were obviously both thinking that working with him might be a bit difficult.

"The first thing I want you to remember," the aged professor barked, "is that you're lucky to be here at all. Paranormal Studies is a new field, and one you won't find too much guidance in. This is only the second degree program of its kind in the nation, possibly the world. So be proud to be here, and always remember that you're representing the entire future of the discipline." The three students nodded.

"Now, the three of you will be working together for at least two years. You'll be the TAs for my undergrad classes. Yes, that means the psych classes too." The tallest grad student flinched slightly and pushed his glasses back up his prominent nose. "Most of the credit courses for the master's and doctoral programs will be seminars. A few undergraduates who have successfully completed my Intro to Parapsychology class will likely be joining the seminars starting with the spring semester. Since the only other school that offers this degree is UC-Berkley, and they do things . . . differently over there, the research component of the degree plan will largely be in your hands. I will, of course, be advising you though the process, but your areas of study, your experimental plan, and your timetable will be mostly self-directed."

Dr. Harth steepled her hands. There was something birdlike and sharp about the old woman. "Since you'll all be helping guide each other through the process as well, I'd like for each of you to introduce yourself to the others." She sat back in her chair, observing intently.

The hippie spoke up first. "Uh, hi guys. I'm Matt. My legal last name is Fanshaw, but I'm trying to get it changed to Feather. I'm, like, totally into psychic phenomena because I think they're the next wave of human evolution. I graduated from Clarkson this spring with a degree in anthropology, and I'm working towards a master's degree in this program. Groovy to meet you all." He smiled nervously.

The student sitting next to Matt was a short fellow with dark hair and classic Italian features, down to the Roman nose. "Hey. I'm Vincent Dellafava, one word, I know my old man doesn't like it when I do that but I don't care anymore; call me Vince, but not Vinnie, okay? I'm interested in the relationship between miracles as the church defines them and psychic phenomena. I'll be honest, I'm still pretty skeptical that any of this is real, but I think it says a lot about the human condition that we still believe it, you know? I graduated from Boston College with a double major in psychology and theology, and I took a couple of years off to work for my uncle in retail. I hated it, so I came back to academia. I'm probably going for the doctoral degree, but it may depend on whether the money holds up."

The third student, a tall man with Semitic features, wire-rimmed glasses, and nearly vertical hair, folded his hands. "My name is Egon Spengler. I just completed a doctoral degree in particle physics from MIT. My primary paranormal interests are in psychokinesis and spectral phenomena, but I'm also curious about telepathy, precognition, and the other ESP abilities. My intent is to earn a second doctorate." He stared at the other two; Matt cringed, as if the mere thought of physics scared him.

Vince met Dr. Harth's eyes, then held out a hand. "Nice to meet you guys, Egon, Matt." He shook hands with both of them. Hesitantly, Matt held out a hand to Egon, who gripped it briefly. Vince grinned. "I'm sure we'll all get along fine here."

\---

"Why is Intro to Parapsych so huge this year?" grumbled Vince. The stack of grading on the library table was formidable, and Matt had not yet appeared.

"It _is_ a fascinating avenue of study," offered Egon, checking off quiz answers mechanically; he barely glanced at the key, having memorized it at this point.

"Yeah, you're right, but usually it's only about thirty kids, I looked it up - and this year there were seventy-something on the first day. Some of those will drop the class once they figure out it's not a blow-off course, but double enrollment is a pretty big jump." Vince finished checking the quiz in front of him and recorded the grade on the spreadsheet the taller TA had made.

Egon shrugged. "I was informed by one of the psychology graduate students that a significant fraction of the track-and-field and baseball teams have signed up this semester. No one seems to know what their motivation might have been."

"Bizarre," remarked Vince. "I mean, telepathy and clairvoyance don't really seem like jock stuff." He plucked another quiz off the stack. "Some of these guys are gonna drop for sure; I don't think they've done any of the reading."

"My current estimate for the average grade so far is 72.3%." Spengler slid the next quiz across the table towards himself. There were two doodles across the top of the page; one was a semi-obscene depiction of a topless girl holding a pair of cheerleader pom-poms, and the other was a dressed cheerleader holding open the mouth of a lion, drawn in the style of the school mascot.

Egon frowned. That was a parody of the Strength card from a Tarot deck. He ran down the ten answers on the quiz. They were all stated tersely, as if the student wanted to expend as little ink on the assessment as possible, but they were all correct.

Egon noted the name at the top of the quiz to record the grade. _Pete Venkman_.

\---

"Starting this week," Dr. Harth barked at the half-full lecture hall, "you will begin work on your projects for this class. Remember that the written paper itself will count for 30% of your grade for this class, and your oral presentation for another 10%. You _may_ sign up for topics in pairs and do your oral presentation together, but _everyone_ will submit his own written presentation, and you may _not_ simply turn in a duplicate of your partner's." She peered over her glasses across the room. About a third of the student athletes who had signed up for the class had dropped after the first quiz, but the enrollment was still fifty-nine students, almost double what the class normally drew. "In order to keep a group this large and rowdy under control, everyone is required to check in with one of the three TAs for this class on a weekly basis from now until your oral presentation. Remember that your TA and I have equal say on what your final grade will be, so treat them nicely and keep your appointments." Scattered groans rang out across the classroom; she scowled and kept going. "Each of them will have a general meeting once a week. If you can't make yours in a given week, it is your responsibility to contact your TA and reschedule. If you miss more than one, you will automatically lose a letter grade on your presentation unless you have a medical excuse." More groaning. She gestured at her grad students. "Gentlemen, please introduce yourselves to the class and let them know when your sessions are."

Vince stepped up to the podium. "Good afternoon. I'm Vincent Dellafava, and I'll be holding project check-ins on Thursday evenings at 5 pm. We'll meet this week in the library rotunda, and then figure out a more permanent home when we know how big the group is." He paused, then held up a hand. "Also, if anyone needs to use these as homework review sessions, I'm willing to stay until 7 pm to answer questions. Right now, from the last batch of quizzes, I'm guessing there are a bunch of you who could use those." A few of the students in the back of the room, mostly the ones not wearing gymnasium-issued t-shirts, nodded.

Egon watched Vince as he stepped back from the lectern. He hoped that the dark-haired fellow was going to stay on for the doctorate. Not that Spengler minded working alone, but if Matt changed his mind and stayed on, and Vince didn't, Egon wasn't sure he could avoid an eventual blow-up. Moreover, Vince had a good rapport with the undergraduates. He would make a good professor someday; Egon wouldn't have minded taking classes from someone like him.

Matt ambled forward. "Hey, guys. I'm Matt Feather. Um, I guess my group will meet on Saturdays. When's cool with you guys? I don't get up before noon, usually, so is two o'clock okay?" There were a few ragged nods and "uh huh"s from the undergrads. "If it's sunny out, let's just meet on the main quad next to the stairs, okay? If it's raining, meet me in the library lobby and we'll figure something out. I'm cool with pretty much wherever."

Spengler's mouth tightened. He suspected Matt would cancel half his sessions anyway; he showed up for their grading sessions less than 50% of the time, and when he did arrive, he was invariably thirty minutes late or more.

He hesitantly switched places with the hippie. "Greetings. My name is Egon Spengler. I will be holding my sessions in the upstairs lounge of the student center at 11 am on Sundays." Several of the undergraduates actually recoiled at that. "While I do not intend to do homework review sessions concurrently with the project progress meetings, if anyone in my group would find those helpful, I will consider adding a separate meeting for those as well."

A hand went up, from one of the undergrads in school-issued sweats sitting at the back of the room. He was tall and lanky, with a dancer's grace and curly dark hair that was already starting a slow retreat across his forehead. Spengler nodded at him.

"Not to be a prick, Mr. Spengler, but do you really think anyone's going to show up for a Sunday morning session?" Several of the other athletes guffawed at that. "Seems to me that's a good way to make sure you have a light load for yourself."

Egon raised his shoulders in a slight shrug. "My assumption was that, generally speaking, that time was unlikely to be otherwise assigned. Other activities tend not to be scheduled then, to avoid conflicting with church services, and I suspect very few of those interested in this area of study are likely to be attending Sunday sermons." Vince shot him a wry look, but much as Egon respected his perspective, even he couldn't argue that it wasn't a rare one. "We also thought that one morning, one afternoon, and one evening session would cover most people's best thinking times adequately."

The student lowered his hand and met Spengler's eyes; his were piercing blue and steady. Then he nodded. "Fair enough. I withdraw the objection." Scattered snickers rang out from the group around him.

Dr. Harth put a hand on Egon's elbow; startled, he stepped back from the podium. She took his place, and began listing the required components for the project, as the students in the front half of the class began scribbling down notes.

"Who was that asshole?" whispered Vince as the three of them escaped unobtrusively out the side door of the lecture hall. Spengler shrugged again. He rather suspected, given the fellow's reaction, that he was going to be Vince's problem, not his.

\---

He was wrong. Vince had reported back that his group was approximately twenty students, and the heckler had not been one of them. Matt hadn't talked to either of them since Saturday afternoon, but the note he'd left on Dr. Harth's door suggested that his group was a little more than half the class. Given that he was slacking on the grading, Vince and Egon were both slightly amused at that; they suspected that Dr. Harth wasn't going to reassign many, if any, of his wards.

Egon arrived at the lounge at fifteen minutes before eleven and attempted to not look nervous. He'd interacted with undergraduates in his stint as a TA at MIT, but there he'd been a lab monitor; his job consisted mostly of directing students to the appropriate equipment and making sure none of it disappeared. For this assignment, he was expected to provide actual guidance as students selected a topic and narrowed it down to the appropriate scope. That might well be more difficult than he was prepared for.

At five minutes to eleven, two of the undergraduates arrived, a heavyset Asian student and a skinny kid with a wild mop of light brown curly hair. Fortunately for Egon, they were both outgoing enough to do most of the talking themselves, and they'd come up with an idea they were already excited about. Psychometry wasn't one of Spengler's areas of study, although he was familiar with the basic idea. Tri wanted to do historical research on the subject; Zach was interested in doing some basic tests on volunteers from his dorm. Egon was explaining some of the experimental protocols he'd have to follow when the remainder of the group arrived.

They were ten minutes late, and they ambled in as a herd, eight of them together. Five of them wore t-shirts proclaiming their membership in the baseball team; the other three wore track shirts. They were talking loudly about the previous night's party, ribbing two of their number about being hung over, which appeared to be accurate. None of them had brought notebooks, or even writing implements, as far as Egon could tell.

In the middle of the group was Egon's heckler from Monday's class session.

The athletes dropped into the chairs and just about squeezed Tri and Zach off the sofa. The heckler was clearly their leader; they all looked in his direction rather than at Egon.

"Well, Mr. Spengler, we dragged our lazy asses out of bed." The heckler gestured, indicating his clique. "So, you wanna tell us what we should be doing for this project? Because none of us have a clue." He tugged the brim of his baseball cap down over his eyes. There was a general mumble of assent from the rest of his group.

"For this meeting, it should be sufficient to choose a general topic and a plan for gathering data." Egon found himself addressing the young man directly. Zach and Tri exchanged a look of combined exasperation and amusement.

"Yeah, but what sort of topic? I mean, we really don't have any ideas here." The heckler smirked. "We all signed up for this class because we heard a rumor that if you aced the project, you really didn't have to do anything else. Turns out the quizzes were a little tougher than we bargained for, but half of us are bailing out of Chem 201, and if we drop two courses we won't qualify to play in the spring, so we're kinda stuck with it." His grin was ingratiating and completely impersonal, the sort of bright-but-phony smile someone might use to get past a faceless bureaucrat. "So if you can give us a couple of ideas from last semester, we'll just work up some variations on that, and we can all get out of your face and you can call it a day."

Egon scowled. "One of the purposes of this project is to give you an opportunity to pursue an area of personal interest. My offering you other people's topics would largely defeat the point." Zach shot him a sympathetic look, while Tri glared disgustedly at the jocks.

"But we're totally at a loss here. None of us are really interested in this subject; we just thought this would be easier than Intro to Anthropology." The heckler shrugged; his t-shirt tightened across his chest with the motion. "Can you give us some kind of help here?"

Egon was about to decline when something flashed in the heckler's blue eyes and caught his gaze. The undergrad's eyes flicked back and forth, indicating the other athletes, and his mouth curled oddly. Suddenly, Spengler was struck with the thought that the ringleader of this little group was in almost as bad a position as he was himself - somehow, he'd managed to herd a group of eight hung-over fraternity boys here before noon on a Sunday, and if he wasn't prepared, at least he'd come ready to try to talk his way through it. The other seven were all just staring at him, not even participating.

The physicist sighed, and handed over his copy of the textbook. "If I were in your position, I'd start by looking over the list of topics in the table of contents for some basic ideas. Once you've gotten to that point, we'll see if we can narrow the broad topics down to something you can present in eight minutes in class."

The team snatched the book out of his hands, and began jabbering among themselves. Zach and Tri stood up and edged around the group, each handing Egon a piece of paper with a loose proposal written out. "Are you going to be in class tomorrow? You can give us some feedback on these then." Zach glanced at the unruly mob. "I don't think we're going to get much more done with these guys here."

Egon nodded. "That's perfectly acceptable. Thank you for coming, and for being prompt."

Zach grinned. "No problem. Good luck with Pete and his rampaging horde."

Egon's eyes widened. There was only one Peter in the class. "That's Venkman?" The junior psychology major currently had the second highest average in the class.

Tri sniffed. "That's him. Star batter for the baseball team, Big Man On Campus, and the skeeviest asshole you'll ever have the displeasure of meeting. Have fun." The pair wandered off in the direction of the snack bar.

Venkman popped up out of the mob. "Hey, Spengler, we forgot to bring something to write on; you got a notebook we could borrow?" Egon handed him the legal pad he was holding and the pencil from behind his ear. "Great. Thanks."

A few minutes later, they handed it back to him. Down the left side, someone had written "Clairvoyance," "Telepathy," "Precognition," and "Telekinesis." There were two names next to each word. That was it.

"Okay, so we have some basic topics, but we're gonna need to do a little research before we come up with anything like a thesis question here, so can we give you those during Friday's class, and then we check back with you a week from today?" Venkman was grinning again. There were a couple of "yeah"s from the team.

Egon shook his head slightly. "Friday is too late. I need them by Wednesday at the latest, preferably tomorrow." The jocks groaned, but Venkman held out a hand. "Hey, guys, it's our fault for not doing the reading. Are we doing weights or the pool tomorrow? If we're doing weights, we can get some of it done when we're waiting for the benches." He turned back to the grad student. "I don't think we can do tomorrow, so Wednesday it is. Pleasure doing business with ya, Spengler." He held out his hand; Egon hesitantly took it and shook it. His grip was oddly loose, although his palm was warm.

\---

The stack of grading was a little smaller. Another five students, startled by the depth required by the project, had bailed, leaving the enrollment total at the end of the free drop period at fifty-four. Of those, nineteen were in Vince's section, Egon had twelve (two had switched from Matt's group after discovering football-related scheduling conflicts), and the remaining twenty-two were Matt's. Four of the last-minute drops had come from his group; none had been Egon's.

"I wonder what Matt did to scare them," mused Vince. The blond student had once again failed to show up for grading duty.

Egon shrugged. "Does it matter? I imagine he panicked at the idea of taking responsibility for almost thirty papers."

Vince split the stack of quizzes in half. "I'm having trouble getting the kiddos to narrow their topics down to something they can collect reasonable data on."

"And half of my group still fails to realize that a single word is not an acceptable statement of their topic." Spengler glanced at the key and began checking. "What did you think of Dr. Haberman's seminar this week?"

"The stuff about the basic need for humans to have faith in something, without any restrictions on what?" Vince drummed his fingers on the table, grading pen tapping aimlessly. "Personally, I think he's way off base. I mean, yeah, religion is a cultural universal, but that doesn't mean that there's a 'deep faith' like Chomsky's 'deep grammar,' and if it _were_ like that, by the analogy, that would argue for some sort of structure." He chuckled. "Gods and verbs. Maybe Tillich was right."

Egon nodded vigorously. "And language represents a positive adaptation to the environment. If we have evolved to perceive spirits - gods or otherwise - and develop rituals for dealing with them, that fact alone does not argue against the _existence_ of spirits. There is no evidence that any animal has ever evolved a sensory apparatus for sensing something absent from their environment of adaptation."

"So basically, I think he's got his head up his own ass and doesn't really understand the biology he's arguing from." Vince twirled the pen and began grading again. "One-word topics, huh? Yeah, I got a few of those too, mostly from the track guys."

"Mine are runners and baseball players. I think they all belong to the same fraternity." Egon finished a third quiz, and plucked the next from the stack. Venkman's.

"Wouldn't surprise me," returned Vince, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Scholarship kids at an Ivy school, and they think the world revolves around them. I bet half of them could have afforded this without the scholarship, too."

Spengler opened his mouth, then closed it again. His lips pressed together in a hard line.

Vince's expression darkened. "Oh, did I just put my foot in it?"

Egon shook his head once, perhaps a little too hard. "I don't remember whether I told you and Matt or not where I went for my undergraduate degree, but it was here. And I matched the description you just gave - an academic scholarship rather than an athletic one, granted." He lifted one eyebrow and continued, "However, I assure you that I did not join a fraternity." One corner of his mouth turned up in what was not exactly a smile, but hinted that one might be possible later.

"Right. Sorry." Vince ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I just - I mean, my family's pretty comfortable, you know, but some of these kids just have attitudes like I'm trash, and it's starting to get to me. Problem with being an authority figure to them, I guess. And the athletes are the worst."

Egon merely nodded. Venkman had gotten nine questions right out of ten. On the one he'd missed, he'd written "The impermanence of all things." Perhaps Philosophy 101 was also on the dump class list.

\---

For their third meeting, Tri had arrived with a full bibliography and most of an outline. Egon was a little disappointed that he had chosen not to perform any actual experimentation, especially since the available literature was sparse, but he was within Dr. Harth's parameters of acceptability and farther along than anyone else in the group. The two new members of the group, both self-described band geeks, were interested in experimenting with out-of-body experiences, but rather concerned about what they could report on if they didn't get any results. Zach had joked that he knew someone who could get them chemical assistance, just in case. The two band geeks, Zach, and Egon were discussing doing a review of the current research and then spending most of the project describing their experimental set-up, when what Egon now thought of as the Team arrived.

Well, six of them did. Four of the ones who were there had on sunglasses, and baseball caps pulled down hard over their faces. Venkman, who was without his cap for once, looked exhausted, as did the last member of their party.

Spengler looked down at his list. "Where are Baker and Weiss?"

"Still drunk off their asses," growled Venkman, dropping into the chair closest to the graduate student. He turned his displeasure on his entourage. "Look, guys, I don't like it any better than you do. We could've picked the hippie freak's section, but you guys kept making jokes about beating him up, and if you get your butts suspended from the team, the Major League scouts'll never see me get to show off _my_ moves." Egon lifted his head slightly; that explained why they'd chosen him, at least. "We're stuck with this dumb-ass class until the end of the semester, so you're just gonna have to suck it up." He rubbed at his forehead with one hand, tousling the tuft of dark curls that tumbled across it.

"I don't suppose any of you have a reference list ready." Egon's voice was carefully flat.

The four in the dark glasses muttered imprecations about his parentage. Venkman rolled his eyes. The last Team member - Egon thought his name was Garcia - stood up, dug a wad of folded paper from his back pocket, unfolded it and handed it to Egon. "It's not done yet," he added, although he at least looked vaguely embarrassed as he did so. "But it's something."

"True." Egon asked each of the Team members to give him a verbal description of their progress; in most cases, this took less than thirty seconds. He reprimanded them, demanded that they show some sign of progress on Monday, and dismissed them.

Zach grinned. "You really shouldn't do that. Reward them by letting them go early, I mean. They'll just do it again next time."

"Then they'll fail the class." Spengler shrugged again. "It's not really my concern."

Zach explained the experiments he wanted to do; the problem, they realized quickly, was going to be finding control objects to use against the experimental ones. How did you make sure an object had never been handled with any strong feelings? That brought up the issue of making sure one experimental subject didn't contaminate the set for the next subject. By the time the five remaining members of the group had hashed out a potential solution, it was almost twelve-thirty.

As the four undergraduates wandered off, Egon returned to the mangled sheets of legal pad paper Garcia had given him. The bundle seemed rather thick. Egon pressed them flat with the palm of his hand, and flipped through the pages.

The last two sheets were in a different hand completely. Venkman's, naturally. One was a sketchy outline for his project; the second was a list of potential sources on precognition.

At the bottom of the second were the words _9 pm, Friday, Chem Bldg_.

\---

Egon leaned against the cool stone wall of the chemistry building. He knew it intimately, although not as well as the physics hall. He had enjoyed his chemistry classes immensely, but he was fundamentally interested in forces far more than molecular interactions. It was a scientific hobby, like mycology, not a passion.

A figure in a hooded windbreaker meandered towards him. He was dressed quite casually, in a ragged pair of bell-bottomed jeans and a pair of tennis shoes dark with mud, but most students who dressed like that slouched. This one didn't, despite the backpack slung over one shoulder.

Spengler looked over his glasses. "Venkman."

"Evening, Dr. Spengler." The figure in the windbreaker nodded. "Any chance you can get us into the building here?"

"Yes," Egon replied simply. He wasn't sure how Venkman knew that, though. It wasn't supposed to be common knowledge that the TAs' keys would get them into most of the lab buildings. He unlocked the door, let Venkman in first, and then let it click behind them.

The undergraduate made a beeline for the vending machine lounge and dropped onto the bench. Egon flicked the light on and drifted over to the soda machine. "Do you want anything?" he called over his shoulder.

"Nah. That stuff'll rot your teeth," Venkman called back, tipping the hood of his jacket back and running his hands through his dark hair. Egon got a soda for himself and slid into a chair. The room seemed oddly bright, after the dim night outside.

The silence stretched out between them. Spengler sipped at his soft drink and waited for Venkman to explain himself.

Finally, the undergraduate fidgeted and sat up. "So, yeah. I was thinking I would set up some precog trials, but I have a couple of problems."

"So this is about your project specifically, and not your group as a whole or the class in general?" Egon was slightly surprised. He had expected to be negotiating with the Team through Venkman, not the young man himself.

"Oh, god, no." Venkman rolled his eyes. "It's all I can do, with my particularly potent powers of persuasion, to get them to show up for the meetings. I'm not doing any more of their work for them. As long as they pass, I don't care if they all get C's because they can't get their asses in gear."

Egon nodded. "You don't seem to be having any difficulty with the class material." He took a long swallow from the soda. For some reason, his throat was dry. "Unlike them."

Venkman chuckled. "No. It's not a hard class; you just have to actually at least skim the reading. You'd think they'd realize that they're not in high school anymore, and some of them have, but - " He spread his hands and shrugged.

Egon leaned back a bit. "So what issues are you having that you can't talk to me after class about?"

"I can't talk to you after class because then all the guys would see me talking to the nerdiest grad student in the Tri-State Area, and realize that little Pete Venkman might be able to help them with their homework." Venkman's mouth puckered sourly. "No thanks. And you said you'd schedule homework sessions. I figured this counted." He sat up straighter. "Anyway, you have a Zener deck, right, and you get someone to look at each card, or maybe you do it yourself. For a telepathy trial, you have the subject try to read each card as you look at it. But that could be clairvoyance, right, they're really looking at it with you, not reading your mind. If you set up a precognition trial the same way, with the subject trying to predict each card before you start looking, maybe before you even shuffle the cards, how do you know whether they're really seeing the cards in the future, or they're reading your future perceptions?" He leaned against the armrest. "I mean, I don't believe in any of that stuff, but you should at least know what you're trying to measure, right?"

Egon tapped his chin with a finger, thinking. "If you wanted to exclude the two-talent case of precognitive telepathy, you could have the subject themselves record the cards after the prediction. That way, there's only one mind involved."

Venkman looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Of course. Wait, how do you know they aren't cheating?"

"Tell them they're recording for a different trial, for another subject," suggested Egon. "Or you could watch with them, but then they might be reading your mind again. Still, you would imagine it would be easier to read their own mind, wouldn't you?"

Venkman nodded slowly. "Sure. The other problem is - where do I get test subjects?"

"Your fraternity brothers won't do it?"

"They won't take it seriously. if I'm going to go to the trouble of collecting data, I don't want them farting around." Venkman looked disgusted, briefly.

"You could try recruiting in one of the underclassmen's dorms. That's what Zach is doing." Egon didn't really have any good suggestions, but Venkman seemed to take to that one.

"Yeah. As long as I play it off as a psych experiment, that should work." Venkman pushed himself to his feet. "Okay. Thanks. I think I have a good start, here."

"Shall I expect a preliminary report on Sunday?" Egon rose, steadying himself a bit on the back of his chair.

"Oh, hell, no. I won't have enough time, first of all, and second, if I let the rest of my teammates know I've gotten caught up they'll start thinking I'm a brain, and then there goes my reputation. Can't have that." Venkman scooped up the backpack from the floor. "Right now, they know I'm reasonably smart - smart enough to belong at Columbia, anyway - because I don't study and still I pass all my classes. If they found out I was actually doing work?" He shook his head. "I might have some data by Wednesday, but - hey, look, can we meet here again, same time, next Friday?" Venkman met his gaze, blue eyes pleading.

Egon tried to say "Absolutely not; that's ridiculous." Instead, what came out was "Only if you buy the soda."

"Seems like a small enough price to pay." Venkman smiled. "I don't think anyone's going to see me out here, but just in case, could you wait a couple of minutes after I leave before you do?"

"This seems like a rather tortuous method for retaining a reputation, Mr. Venkman," Egon stated with a hint of irritation.

"Yeah, but it's worked so far. Call me Peter." The underclassman's eyes registered faint surprise at his own words; he signed all his papers 'Pete.' Still, he didn't correct himself.

"Very well, Peter. 9:00 pm next Friday. I will expect a preliminary data set of a reasonable size."

"Sure thing. See ya Sunday. I might be hung over then; try not to shout, okay?" Venkman shook his hand and headed out.

Egon finished the soda slowly. "Peter," he said again, rolling the name on his tongue.

It was another ten minutes until he realized the can was empty.

\---

Vince was lying on his back on the couch in the upstairs lounge of Weaver Hall. "I mean, as long as they're just reporting on the data that's already been collected by someone else, they seem to be fine, but they have no idea how to collect a valid data set for themselves," he complained. "And if the major published researchers are this bad at it, is it really reasonable for us to expect the students to do better?"

Dr. Harth drummed her fingers on the table. "All the more important for us to instill good research skills in them now. I won't penalize them for not having flawless experimental technique - this is an introductory course, after all - but they should be reflective enough to recognize that there _are_ flaws."

The door to the stairwell banged open a few yards down the hall. Matt hustled in, his hair dripping. "Sorry I'm late. Skies just opened up."

Egon glanced out the window. He hadn't realized it was raining; the wind was such that the rain wasn't pattering against the glass. He blinked. Had it even been cloudy when he'd gotten here this morning? He couldn't remember.

"How is your group doing, Matt? I haven't gotten much feedback from you," commented the old woman, steepling her fingers. Vince aimed a smirk in Egon's direction.

The youngest of the grad students grabbed a paper towel from next to the coffee machine and pulled up a chair. "Fine, except that two of the track guys don't really have a topic, and a lot of the other topics all sound exactly the same." He dabbed the rainwater from his face. "I mean, no one wants to take a complex topic, and since they're all so simple, there's not a lot to distinguish them. It's gonna be hard to make sure none of them are cheating off of each other."

"Which brings me to another unpleasant topic." Dr. Harth's owlish features hardened. "I have reason to believe that several of our baseball team members are copying off of each other."

"What?" snapped Egon, his head coming up sharply. He was echoed by a "Really?" from Vince. Matt just looked lost.

The professor removed several sheets of paper from her bag and set them on the table. "These five quizzes all have exactly the same wrong answers, some of which are highly improbable ones. I find it hard to believe that's a coincidence."

Egon leaned over and saw the grade. 70%. A knot dissolved in his stomach that he didn't even realize had formed. Peter had made a 90 on that quiz. It wasn't him.

He frowned at himself. Why did that matter? It wasn't that he didn't think the fast-talking batter wasn't capable of cheating; if he'd believed that, he wouldn't have worried that he was involved. And if he was capable of that, his being caught could only be a good thing, couldn't it?

His heart rate was elevated. This was confusing. He adjusted his glasses and looked back at Dr. Harth.

Vince sighed. "Two of these are in my group. Do you want me to talk to them tomorrow?"

"This one's mine," offered Matt, picking up one of the papers. "And it's one of the guys who doesn't really have a topic, either."

Egon finally looked at the names. "Baker and Weiss are the two who skipped my second meeting," he offered, sliding those two quizzes towards himself.

The professor sighed. "I'll arrange to have a talk with their coach. If you notice it again - either with these students or with others, especially others on the athletic teams - notify me right away. This is not acceptable behavior. Calling them out in front of the other students is probably not a good idea - we don't want them putting ideas in the others' heads." She stacked the five quizzes and clipped them together. "But if you get a chance to speak with them alone, or in groups of two, then letting them know their shenanigans have been noticed might not be amiss."

She dropped the packet back into her bag. "If there aren't any other issues with your TA duties, then let's talk about avenues for your own research. Dr. Haberman has put out a proposal for a survey on attitudes about paranormal phenomena compared to socioeconomic status, and he's looking for collaborators."

"Sure, I'm certain we're all available and we'd love to get our names on his paper, but he not only doesn't believe paranormal phenomena are real, he's willing to label pretty much any religious beliefs as 'paranormal' ones," Vince pointed out, rolling up to a sitting position. "That's not exactly the sort of research I think _you_ had in mind when you picked us."

"What sort of statistical analysis is he planning on performing?" asked Egon, who was even less enthusiastic than Vince about the prospect.

"I don't know," Dr. Harth admitted. "That's actually one reason I want one of you boys on the team; he's one of those people who is proud of how bad they are at math." Egon groaned, and Vince rolled his eyes; Matt watched their reactions and grinned sheepishly.

\---

"It's a pretty phenomenal data set, actually," Venkman grinned. "I mean, I still don't believe in precognition, I'm sure there's some sort of subliminal cheating going on, but out of a sample of twenty students at three trials of twenty-five cards each, I have ten scoring a theoretical standard deviation or more above the mean. You'd expect, what, six?"

"That's correct." Egon's hair was mostly dry; he'd arrived before the rain had started in earnest, and he had an umbrella with him. Peter had arrived five minutes late, with no protection from the weather other than his jacket; the tuft of curls that normally served him for bangs was wet and draggling in his eyes. "Make sure you add that sort of statistical analysis to your write-up."

"Wouldn't miss it." Venkman stretched, the muscles in his limbs clearly outlined by the wet fabric of his jeans and t-shirt. Spengler felt his cheeks warm slightly, and turned to face the window. Rivulets of water trickled down the glass.

He heard Peter's wet shoes squeak against the floor. "There's one kid, a sophomore, who wanted to take this class this semester, but he didn't have the prereqs. He'll be in it in the spring. A real true believer, but he's an engineering major. I told him he needs to meet you, that there weren't a whole lot of scientists in this field. Mostly it's bullshit artists." He paused. "Like me."

Egon wanted to comment on that, but he'd seen no evidence to belie Venkman's assertion. It was just a feeling, that the fast-talking jock was an act. A hunch. Instead, he asked "How did he score?"

"Nine, nine, and seven correct on his three trials. Not a superstar, but above average." Venkman grinned. "His name's Stantz. He's not just interested in telepathy and precog, either. Kid actually believes ghosts are real."

"Actually, while I wouldn't use the term 'believe,' I'm interested in spirit phenomena as well." Spengler turned back to watch Peter's reaction to the statement. His _second_ reaction was dismissive disbelief. For a moment, before that, there had been something else, so fleeting Egon couldn't name it.

"You? An electron-smashing math whiz, you're interested in _ghosts_?" Venkman rolled his eyes. "And here I thought I'd picked the sane one, over the hippie and the Jesus freak."

"Mr. Dellafava isn't a 'Jesus freak;' he's just . . . " Egon turned back to Peter, his eyes narrowed. "How did you know that?"

"Know what?" Peter tried to look innocent, and failed miserably.

The physicist scooted his chair closer. "Neither Mr. Dellafava nor I volunteered that information about ourselves to the class."

"Okay, I did a little digging on all three of you," Peter admitted, shrugging. "I wanted to make sure I wasn't going to end up with a true believer who wouldn't respect a skeptical viewpoint. I figured you were my best bet."

Egon blinked. "How did you get the rest of your team to go along with that?"

"I goaded them into making a few hippie-bashing statements when they were a little drunk, which, believe me, was disgustingly easy. That let Feather-head out. Thursday's when one of Coach's tutors comes by, so everyone who gets help from him with their literature papers got stuck with you. I don't actually need help with English Lit, but the guy's kind of cute, so I go anyway." He waggled his eyebrows.

"Well, again, I wouldn't say that 'belief,' in the standard sense, has anything to do with my motivations," Egon said, picking up the previous thread. There was a flicker of something in Peter's eyes again; suddenly Spengler felt like he'd missed a joke. He probably had; it wasn't uncommon.

"Well, what are they, then? Pure scientific curiosity?" Venkman draped his arms over the hard wooden back of the bench, head lolling.

"I've had some . . . experiences. Nothing that would hold up to lab scrutiny, yet, but intriguing." _And it just feels like the way the universe **ought** to work,_ Egon wanted to add, but arguing from intuition wasn't likely to get him anywhere with Peter.

The undergraduate fixed him with an icy blue stare. "And what do you mean by 'experiences'?"

Spengler wondered, for a moment, why he was telling Venkman any of this. He hadn't even told Vince, and he was going to be working with the other grad student for four years. Then again, Vince had never asked. "Two cases in which I am fairly certain I sensed a spectral entity, one case of possible psychokinetic movement of an object, and three cases of possible telepathic contact."

"And there wasn't a simpler explanation for any of those events?" Venkman's mouth curled into something that would have been a sneer if it had been more hostile.

"There are, of course, other possible explanations for each of the events. In all but two, they involve me hallucinating with no discernible reason. I don't consider that a simpler explanation, however." The physicist shrugged. "As I said earlier, nothing reproducible yet. I think I'm getting closer, but right now it's mostly theory." He sat back in his chair. For some reason, Venkman's challenging him was causing an emotional reaction. That didn't normally happen. He felt - defensive. "I had hoped to begin working on detecting psychokinetic energy fields, but this semester has largely been spent doing other people's research instead of my own."

"And keeping track of us." Peter suddenly grinned.

Egon met his gaze. "And why are you really taking this course, Peter?"

"I told you why already," Venkman shrugged. "We heard that it was a blow-off except for the project."

"I spoke with Garcia, Baker, and Weiss individually after the cheating incident," Egon mentioned.

Peter seemed to take this as a change of subject. "Yeah, I don't know what got into them - "

Spengler held up a hand. "That's not important. However, they all claim that _you_ are the source of that rumor. Baker and Weiss seem to take it on faith that someone else told you, but Garcia is quite sure that you decided that based on a single conversation with someone who took the course last year." Egon lowered his head and looked at Venkman over his glasses. "I suspect that you're taking this course because you're genuinely curious, and you manipulated a group of your fellow team members into doing so with you. I am still not sure why you felt the need to do that."

"Because it looks weird when one of us takes something other than the bare minimum. We're here on athletic scholarship, so we're not supposed to be _real_ scholars, never mind that we chose to come here and not to some state school that plays in a better sports conference. Besides," Venkman shrugged, "at the end of the day, it's still an intro course, so it's really not that hard. I thought this sounded more interesting than Intro to Anthro, which was the other option for my degree plan."

Egon nodded. "So you don't have any . . . experiences of your own that led you here?"

Peter's expression froze. He scooped up his backpack and his sodden jacket in one move, and headed for the door. "Nope," he called back over his shoulder. "Same time next week, okay?" And he was gone.

\---

Spengler didn't see the door to the lab swing open, but he did hear it when it shut. He looked up from the pile of resistors, capacitors, solenoids, and wire as Vince edged around the long countertop. "Hey, Egon."

The physicist set down his soldering iron and glanced at his watch. "Oh, no," he groaned, pushing himself to his feet.

Vince gestured back for him to stay seated. "No, no, it's okay, Matt didn't show up either and Dr. Harth decided she hadn't been clear that we were still meeting this afternoon. I got brownie points for being in the right place at the right time, but she's not mad at you. I just came to tell you we're rescheduled for tomorrow afternoon." He grabbed another stool and pulled it up next to Spengler's. "What're you working on?"

Egon gave him a speculative look. Vince laughed and spread his hands. "Yeah, yeah, I probably won't understand it all, but try me anyway, okay?"

Spengler narrowed his eyes, then nodded abruptly. "It's based on an idea I had when I was still at MIT. If we assume the existence of non-physical entities that can still affect the physical world, then there must be a field that they can use to interact with the physical world - if that didn't exist, then we'd be unable to interact with them at all, even to see them. They're not affected by gravity, at least by all popular reports, so that can't be it. And the strong and weak nuclear forces wouldn't be much use to them on a macro-scale. So it must be the electromagnetic force. That means that they can interact with charged particles, and with photons - or, more accurately, that they can be affected by those. But," he continued, speaking more rapidly now, "they can also choose not to be affected by them, in that they are also able to pass through solid objects. So in order to force an interaction, I theorize that the particles must be in an energized or accelerated state. A protonic plasma would, theoretically, be able to interact with a ghost, for instance."

"But in order to test _that_ hypothesis, one would need to locate a ghost to begin with." Egon's eyes were bright. "To psychokinetically hold or manipulate a physical object, or even light, the spirit would need to generate a field of what I theorize would be pseudo-electrons - particles with negative electrical charge but no mass. That would explain the sensation of one's hair standing up that often accompanies a ghost sighting. The strength of the pseudo-electric field would indicate how much psychokinetic energy the entity was capable of bringing to bear. This," he said, finally indicating the device beginning to take shape in front of him, "is a detector array that would measure the strength of that psychokinetic energy field. It would allow you to detect ghosts from a distance."

Vince's eyes were focused on Egon's face. "You really believe that ghosts exist," he murmured, sounding more amused than shocked.

First Venkman, now Vince. "I wouldn't use the term 'believe'. I have had several personal experiences for which the existence of supernatural phenomena is the simplest answer that does not involve me simply being insane," Egon huffed.

The other grad student's features smoothed out. "Oh, no, no, I'm sorry. That came out wrong. I wasn't - I didn't mean to be dismissive." There was something gleaming in Vince's eyes now. "You're serious? You've seen one?"

"Felt. Two different ones. I did not make visual or physical contact either time." Egon searched Vince's features for derision and, surprisingly, did not find any.

The other man slid off the stool and onto his feet. "You're lucky, man," he murmured, his eyes dropping to the pile of components.

"How so?" Egon frowned. "I have to admit, generally speaking, I've found it inconvenient. Given a choice between believing I am clinically insane and believing that their own worldviews are wildly incomplete, the vast majority of people - in the hard and soft sciences alike - tend to take the first option."

Vince shook his head. "Yeah, but like you said earlier, you don't have to believe. You have evidence. You _know_."

"I don't _know,_ Vincent. I'm a scientist. I have a hypothesis based on observation." Egon scowled, deep furrows forming between his eyes. "I have some evidence. I need more. That's what this is for." His hands came up, pushing his glasses back to rub at the bridge of his nose. "Right now, the evidence for my being mildly schizophrenic is almost as strong. I would . . . prefer to accumulate evidence in favor of my hypothesis."

Vince leaned in close enough to touch him lightly on the arm, saying "For what it's worth, Egon, I don't think you're crazy. I'm sorry, I just didn't think a moment ago. I was - I've never experienced anything supernatural. Anything. I've never seen or felt a ghost, I've never had a vision or a precog dream, never had telepathic contact, never felt an angel holding me up, or a saint taking the weight of guilt off of me, or the Word of God." His voice was strained. Egon looked up, startled; was there a faint hint of tears in Vince's eyes? "I don't know, Egon. I can't know. I'm a-gnostic, 'without knowing,' in the most literal sense. And it just about killed me when I realized that, even almost tore my family apart, because until I realized that, I _believed_, and I didn't need to know. Until that moment, I'd been intending to go to seminary instead of grad school. Everything that I'd intended to do with my life - losing that was like losing myself."

The other grad student leaned against the counter, his gaze focused very far away. "I think I still believe. I have hope, at least. I _hope_ God is real, and out there, and that he's a kind and loving God and not the angry one. But I don't, you know, I don't have that deep faith anymore. Because I don't have any evidence." He looked back at Egon. "So I envy you for that, a little, even if it means you have to convince people you're not crazy."

"Including my father," Egon pointed out. His eyes fell to the device in front of him. "Including myself, some days." He looked back at Vince and added, "And I don't think you'd find the evidence I have to be very supportive of your cosmology."

Vince shrugged. "But at least I'd have evidence for _something_." Pushing himself upright, he waved at Egon's device. "Have fun with that. Let me know if it works, okay?"

"It's still a long way from working, even if I can get it assembled." Egon picked the soldering iron back up. "My joins aren't very good, and some of these parts are small."

"Maybe you can steal someone from electrical engineering to help out?" Vince grinned as he slid out into the hallway. Egon considered that as he managed to burn his finger again.

\---

"Man, if anyone sees me, I am _so_ dead," groaned Venkman, leaning against the back wall of the library with the hood of his jacket pulled up and a baseball cap tugged low over his face.

"Relax, Pete." The sophomore fidgeted nervously. "You have a perfectly legit reason to have me here; I'm one of your lab mice."

"That's the problem," grumbled the junior. "I'm not a mad scientist like you guys; I'm not the sort of person who should have mice for anything other than dropping down girls' shirts. Hey, Dr. Spengler," he added, as Egon arrived. "Dr. Spengler, this is Raymond Stantz. Ray, this is Dr. Egon Spengler. And I'm outta here." He clapped them both on the shoulder as they shook hands, and then stalked off.

"Pete says your doctorate's in physics, but you're with the parapsychology branch of the psychology department here?" The nervousness was still obvious, but now Ray was grinning from ear to ear.

Egon nodded. "That's correct. I'm working on a second doctorate in paranormal studies. Peter tells me you're majoring in engineering, but interested in the paranormal as well."

"I've been doing independent research on ghosts and magic since I could read," agreed the sophomore. "I mean, and telepathy and the other psi phenomena too, I'm interested in pretty much all of it, but Venkman said you did ghosts?"

"They're one of my areas of interest," Egon replied, opening the back entrance to the library and stepping inside. Ray followed eagerly. "Would you be interested in potentially helping me out with some of my research?" continued the physicist. "I couldn't pay very much, but . . . "

"I'd love to. If nothing else, I can put it on my resumé." The younger man bounced on his toes. "What sort of research are you currently working on?"

\---

"Well, I'm glad he's working out for you," smirked Venkman. Lightning flashed outside the window; it had rained for the last three Fridays straight. "Always a pleasure to bring people together."

"We're making sure he gets enrolled in the class next semester. Since he's already working with me independently, he'll have to be in Dellafava's project section." Egon hadn't been sure that Peter would even show up today. Project presentations were starting on Monday, and Peter was essentially finished; he was working up a cardboard presentation backdrop, and his paper needed editing and revising, but he couldn't do either of those here.

Still, he'd gotten a pleasant warm feeling when Peter had made his appearance, despite the driving rain. They were both fairly wet, Egon less so than Peter only because he'd brought an umbrella and fairly crouched under it all the way from the parking lot. Spengler's usual soda sat half-forgotten next to an empty packet of vending machine cookies; half a cup of execrable instant coffee cooled on the arm of Venkman's usual bench.

"Yeah, about that . . . " Venkman trailed off, shifting uncomfortably in his damp clothes. "I kinda owe you an apology for assuming he and you were kooks, just because you're into the spirits thing. That was sorta intolerant of me. I just . . . I haven't had very good experiences with organized religion."

"Neither have I," offered Egon. "Most religions' official theologies have no room for ghosts."

"They don't have room for a lot of things." Peter drummed his fingers on the bench. "Anyway, that was what I came out here for today. I couldn't exactly do it on Sunday, or during class. I better go," he muttered, starting to push himself to his feet.

"Wait." The word was out before Egon knew he was speaking. Fortunately, he was a master of rationalization on his feet. "It's raining too hard right now; you'll be soaked by the time you get back."

Peter glanced at the window, then sank back onto the bench. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

There was a long, awkward silence. Egon decided to break it only after an internal struggle. "May I ask what about yourself they had no room for?"

"Oh, a lot of things, like I said." Peter glared out the window as if he were willing the rain to stop.

Spengler searched his own memories for something relevant. "My father never attended synagogue and argued that the whole idea of religion was rank superstition. My mother only went twice a year, for the High Holy Days. But her more religious friends always avoided me and my books as if they thought my particular blasphemous madness might be contagious." He was overstating things slightly, but not by much. His father hadn't been happy with his choice of reading material, either, which had had the net effect of Egon's learning a great number of ways to hide things from his parents.

Peter nodded despite himself. "Yeah, my dad says religion is a sucker's game. I've never had much reason to doubt him on that front, at least. But Mom takes a lot of comfort from it, even if she doesn't really believe it all. I think, deep down, she knows it's all bullshit." He sighed. "A lot of the guys on the team were FCA guys in high school. Fellowship of Christian Athletes," he added, answering Egon's unspoken question. "I was sort of hoping they'd take the critical eye towards psychic phenomena they're developing in this class and turn it on their church beliefs, but it's not happening."

"So you did have more than one motive for conning them into this class," observed Egon, adjusting his glasses. He frowned at the spectacles and tugged them off, drying them on his shirttail.

"I guess." Lightning flashed outside, and the lights went off. Peter swore under his breath. "Now getting back to the frat house is going to be even more fun."

"Perhaps the power will be back on by the time the rain lets up." The storm howled against the windows; it was getting gustier. Egon replaced his glasses and squinted at Peter through the streaks.

The junior shuddered. His eyes widened, staring into darkness. "Oh, shit, not now."

"Not now what?" Egon was confused. Peter didn't seem to be looking at him, or at anything; his face was blank, his eyes glassy. A shiver ran down Egon's spine. If the undergraduate hadn't still been speaking, he'd have guessed by Peter's expression that he'd fallen into a trance.

"Oh, _god_." Peter hauled himself to his feet, staring, unseeing, into the middle distance. The colored water that pretended to be coffee toppled over, splashing against the wall, unnoticed. "Please, not now - _shit_." His eyes blinked closed; he ran a hand across his face as if to clear them. "Spengler, I need to get to a phone, _now_."

Egon glanced around the lounge and didn't see one. "There'll be one in each of the labs, in case of emergencies." He strode down the hallway, his long legs leaving even the nearly equally tall athlete scrambling to catch up, or perhaps that was an aftereffect of - whatever had just happened. Spengler tried the door to the first lab they came to. It was locked. He fished a rectangle of sheet metal out of his wallet and ran it down the doorjamb; the lock popped open.

"Slick," commented Venkman.

"Poor design more than anything," answered Egon, shrugging. He got out of Peter's way as the junior rushed for the phone. He dialed a number, hands shaking, and muttered obscenities as no one picked up the other end. Slamming the phone back in its cradle and then picking it up again, he tried a second number, hands shaking slightly on the dial.

This time it was answered on the fourth ring. "Suzie? Hi, Pete Venkman here. I know this sounds a little weird, but could you run across the hall and check on Mom for me? I just tried calling her to make sure her power was still on, and there wasn't an answer, and she's usually not out in weather like this. Sure, no problem." Peter leaned against the wall and tapped his foot nervously; Egon wandered over to the far end of the lab and stared out at the water sheeting down the window. "Yeah, I'm here. She was? Do I need to . . . Oh, thank god, Suze, you're a lifesaver! Um, do I need to come out there tonight, or . . . okay, I'll see you tomorrow bright and early, then. No, no, thanks a lot. I don't know what we'd do without you, sweetcakes. Thanks again. Bye." He dropped the phone back into its cradle, and turned to face Egon, defiance written on his features.

"What happened?" the grad student asked, being careful not to be too specific.

"My mom is . . . she and Dad don't live together any more, and she's been kind of sick lately. Up until last month, she had a boarder in the other bedroom of the apartment, and she kind of kept an eye on her, but she's alone now. She was - she had an attack, and fell, and couldn't get to the phone or get back up. Susan Vitter, she lives across the hallway, and she's got a key to Mom's place in case something happens. She says she thinks Mom's okay, she didn't hurt herself or anything, but I need to go out there in the morning and make sure she sees a doctor." Peter ran both hands through his damp hair, slicking it back against his head, and tilted his chin up.

Egon silently led Peter back to the lounge, and settled back in his chair, letting the undergraduate take the bench again. Peter dropped into it like a rock, as Egon grabbed a few paper towels to wipe up the spilled coffee.

And then the younger man was curled up into a ball, shaking, and Egon had somehow teleported to his side, because he didn't remember going through the intervening space, and oh, god, Peter was _crying_.

And he had his arms around him, holding him.

He stayed that way until Peter's body stopped shaking and the younger man uncoiled, his hands finding purchase in Egon's damp shirt. He clung to him as if the tide were pulling him out to sea.

Finally he spoke, his words warm against the older man's shoulder. "I don't want it. I can't hate it. And I haven't found a way to make it stop. The only thing I can do is not believe in it."

Egon's hand awkwardly found the center of Peter's back. "You saw her?"

"Yeah. Just a flash. It's never more than that. Happening just in the middle of talking or something like that is pretty rare; usually it's right as I'm falling asleep." Peter pushed himself up just enough to look Egon in the eyes. "I say 'usually,' but it's only happened about seven times. That would make it eight. At least, that I remember."

"Clairvoyance or telepathy?" Egon forced his voice to stay level.

"Clairvoyance, I think. It's never from their perspective; it's usually just like someone took a photograph and printed it directly in my brain." Peter shuddered. "That, or very short-term precognition."

Egon allowed himself a small grin. "Ray mentioned he ran the cards on you for one trial."

"Yup." Peter looked down. "What did I get? I don't remember."

"Thirteen out of twenty-five. More than half. Ray was highly impressed." He shifted his hands so he was holding the younger man by the shoulders.

Peter shook his head. "Probably just didn't shuffle them well enough, and remembered the order from the previous trial."

"That's possible." Egon tilted his head slightly. "But after what I just saw, I suspect it's less likely than genuine psychic ability on your part."

"But I don't want it!" Peter dropped his head into his hands. "Half the time it's been stupid, inconsequential shit anyway. That's only the second time I've been able to _do_ anything about it." He shivered. "And things probably would have been okay, anyway. If the power had flickered, Suze would have checked up on Mom whether I called or not. And I'd be over there tomorrow morning, no matter what. It's not like I just saved her life or anything, just spared her a night on a cold floor."

"It's still quite an achievement." Egon leaned in slightly. His breathing was slightly rapid. Well, he'd just witnessed a psychic event; he had a reason to be somewhat excited. "Shall I guess that your church wasn't fond of that, either?"

"Whoo, no shit, Sherlock." Peter shook his head. "I mentioned that to Mom's priest once, one of the trivial ones, and he just about ripped my head off. Miracles don't happen to bad kids like me."

His expression softened. "Kids who do things they shouldn't," he murmured, raising one hand to the side of Egon's head.

"Like what?" Egon blinked, unsure of what Peter's next revelation would be.

"Like this," Peter whispered, and his mouth closed on Egon's.

For the first time he could remember, Egon's mind went completely blank. He wasn't thinking. He wasn't analyzing. All his processing power was completely overwhelmed by the sensation of Peter's lips moving against his, and his own mouth responding completely by instinct.

Then the part of his brain responsible for labeling and categorization came back online. _Warm soft wet firm tongue fire so good . . . _

Peter pulled back to take a deep breath, and suddenly Egon's whole mind was racing again. He reeled backwards and almost fell off the bench.

Venkman frowned. "What's the matter, Spengler?"

"I, you, we shouldn't be doing this," panted the older man, clawing at the other arm of the bench for purchase. Some part of his mind, now that it was working again, noted clinically that he now had an erection, and tried to check to see if Venkman did, too; he forced his eyes back upward.

Peter's face registered shock, then sorrow, and then anger. "Aw, fuck," he spat, "I thought I read you right on that." He scooped his sodden backpack from the ground and took off, wet sneakers squeaking on the tile.

Egon blinked into the darkness for a second, then yanked himself to standing. "Peter, wait!" he cried, but the sound of the door opening and the rain spattering outside drowned him out. He raced after the underclassman, hoping against hope that his slightly longer stride and the poor conditions would cancel out Peter's far greater athletic prowess.

Or perhaps, he thought as he frantically grabbed Peter's shoulder and spun him around between the chemistry and physics buildings, Peter wanted to be caught.

He leaned forward, shouting against the wind and rain. "Peter, I think you misunderstood my reaction."

"What, that you're not interested in a dirty queer like me?" Venkman shouted back, anger and perhaps a trace of shame adding volume to his words. "Because I'm not. I like girls just fine. I just - "

"That never registered with me at all," Egon called back, water sheeting down his glasses like it had the windows. "Peter, if our circumstances were different, I would be - more than pleased - to respond to your sexual overtures."

Peter's response was quieter than before. "So what is it? Big brain like yours wouldn't be satisfied with a jock?" He was shivering again, this time with the cold.

"You're still effectively my _student_, Peter," Egon pleaded. "A relationship, either romantic or purely sexual in nature, would compromise my impartiality in grading you for the remainder of the semester. It would be . . . unethical on my part." His eyes hunted for the piercing blue of Venkman's through the torrent.

"Oh," said Peter, barely audible over the storm. He took a step closer to the grad student. Then, "I'm sorry," he whispered in Egon's ear, holding the taller man close for a second. Another kiss grazed Egon's cheek.

Then his arms were only full of rain, and Peter was gone again.

The streetlights flickered back on. Egon was suddenly in the midst of shadows.

\---

"Gawwwwwwd, these presentations are _terrible_," groaned Matt. His hair was now in one long braid down his back; he claimed it got in his way while grading. At least he was actually doing some now, although they weren't quizzing during presentations.

"I've had worse years. This one's down in the third quartile, though, I will admit," Dr. Harth replied.

Egon and Vince glanced at each other and nodded agreement. Zach, Tri, Venkman, Garcia, a group of students who were all in orchestra together in Vince's group, and five kids from Matt's bunch had scraped together reasonable projects with sufficient research to fill an eight-minute presentation. Everyone else had run out of meaningful things to say about their project long before they ran out of time, and had either just ended early or started repeating themselves.

"Although, there have been several who have indicated some interest in further coursework in the subject, too," added the professor. She reeled off a short list of names, including, somewhat to Egon's surprise, Venkman's - and none of the other athletes. "We're already committed to repeating the Intro class in the Spring semester; I was wondering if you three would object to my creating a seminar class as well?"

"For us to TA? When would we get our research done?" griped Matt.

"No, I was thinking I could cross-list it as a Master's level course for you and a senior level course for the undergraduates. It would count towards your hours for your degree plans, and I'd teach it instead of Dr. Haberman." Dr. Harth's eyes twinkled; Egon had suspected that she didn't think much of Haberman's lectures, any more than she did his math.

"Would it be permissible for an underclassman to take it concurrently with this course? My lab assistant has indicated an interest in paranormal studies, and he's actually already done most of the required reading for this class." Egon cleared his throat. "I think his perspective would be distinctly beneficial."

Dr. Harth pinned him with a searching look. Finally, she nodded. "On your say-so, Egon, I'd be willing to let him try."

Egon grinned softly to himself. Having himself, Peter, and Ray in the same class could be . . . fun.

\---

Egon sighed. He wasn't looking forward to the winter break; he'd decided not to go home, partly because he didn't want to spend the time fighting with his father about his decision to pursue a degree in something so disreputable as paranormal studies, and partly because he was faintly worried about his cheap apartment being broken into if he was absent for a month. Staying, though, meant he'd be alone for most of that month.

Any other year, that wouldn't have bothered him. He was used to being alone; he'd been largely friendless throughout his public school days, and had only a few casual friends here as an undergraduate. At MIT, he'd formed bonds with several of the other grad students in the physics and math departments over their shared interests, but they'd all still held each other at arm's length emotionally. They were more colleagues than friends.

But this year, Ray would be spending the holiday with his parents out on Long Island, which meant that Egon was unlikely to make any more progress on their PKE meter. He'd grown quite fond of the energetic underclassman since Peter had introduced them. Ray was one of the first people Egon had ever met whose disreputable academic passions largely overlapped with his own. Their conversations were wide-ranging and often fruitful. The category of people with whom Egon was genuinely comfortable was vanishingly small, but the sophomore had fallen into it like he'd always belonged there.

And Peter . . . hadn't spoken directly to Egon since the presentations. He'd come to every class, the center of his usual cluster of teammates, laughing and joking their way through the concluding lectures. He'd aced the last quiz. But he showed no sign of being interested in conversing with Egon at all; the one time Spengler had tried to catch him after class, one of the baseball players had gotten between them and he'd given up.

Now the class was over, and he was unlikely to see Peter again, unless he'd signed up for the seminar next semester. Enrollment hadn't officially closed, so Dr. Harth didn't have a class list yet. Egon found himself desperately hoping that Peter had chosen to step out from the rest of the Team, but his behavior in the last few classes left little evidence that he had done so.

Egon, Vince, and Matt were clustered around a table in the psychology department lounge with a pile of blue books in the center, working through the final exams. Matt's hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he'd shaved his beard. He claimed it was because snow got caught in it; Vince suspected Matt had a girlfriend who didn't like it.

They were about half done when Egon set the booklet he'd been working on into the graded pile, recorded the grade on the spreadsheet, and took the next one in the stack.

Venkman's. Of course.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Vince, it is all right if I give you this one and take the next one?"

"Sure," replied Vince automatically. Then he looked at the name. "Pete? Oh, yeah, wasn't he the heckler from the baseball team who was giving you hell?"

"Yes, although he stopped that fairly early. I'm just not - he told me some slightly personal information during one of our homework sessions, and I do not trust myself not to let that color my judgement." Egon felt his cheeks burning at the admission.

"No problem. We all need to know our limitations, right?" Vince took Venkman's blue book and slid it underneath the one he was marking up in red ink.

Two hours later, they'd reached the bottom of the stack. Egon took the grading spreadsheets and began totaling up the points from the quizzes, the midterm, the project, and the final.

"Sorry, I graded him as hard as I could justify, but he still got an A. Just barely, but still." Vince grinned at him; sure enough, Venkman's grade for the exam was a 91.

He got a 91.7 for the course. Fourth highest in the class, after Zach, one of Vince's orchestra students, and Tri.

They turned in the completed spreadsheets to the department secretary, since Dr. Harth had already left for the day. Matt wished them both a Merry Christmas as they left the building.

Vince chuckled a bit. "And Happy Hanukkah."

"Thanks," replied Egon. "Happy New Year, and see you in January."

"Wouldn't miss it," Vince added, waving as he headed off.

Egon was a block away from the building when a pair of feet fell into step behind him. He knew who it was before turning around, mostly from the sudden jittering of his stomach. "Good afternoon, Peter. How is your mother doing?"

"Back in the hospital," winced Venkman.

Egon slowed down for a few steps to bring Peter alongside him. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It was gonna happen sooner or later. I'm actually kinda glad it's now, when I have time to be up there with her." Peter looked up. "You wouldn't happen to know my average for the class, would you?"

Egon hesitated, then relented. "Ninety-two percent."

Peter whooped and pumped his fist. Then a wolfish grin spread across his face. "So that means that the grades have been turned in, right?"

"Technically, Dr. Harth hasn't signed off on them yet." Egon was puzzled at the question.

"But _you_ aren't grading anything more for me, right?" Peter dodged in front of Egon, turned to face him, and started walking backwards. Egon slowed down to avoid walking into him.

"That's correct. The TAs have completed their hours for the semester." Spengler still wasn't sure what Venkman was getting at.

Peter stopped suddenly, and Egon _did_ walk into him before he could catch himself. Immediately, Peter's arms were around him, hands pressed against his back. "So, that means that you're not in a teacher-pupil relationship with me right now, right?"

Egon blinked at him. "I suppose, technically, your description is accurate." Peter's eyes reflected the grey of the winter sky above them, pale and wide.

"And I understand that, even if I signed up for Investigations In Parapsychology for next semester, you guys are cross-enrolled in that one, so you wouldn't be TAing it at the same time?" Venkman's hands were moving slowly along his back, one upwards, one down.

Egon nodded, swallowing. "So, you did sign up?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Peter's face was flushed, no doubt from the chill. "I mean, you, me, and Ray all in the same classroom? No one else is gonna get a word in edgewise. I still think you guys are nuts about the ghost thing, mind you."

"But perhaps not about paranormal phenomena in general?" Egon raised an eyebrow at the undergraduate.

"Let's just say that having someone else believe me might, just _might_, be opening my mind to the possibility." One of Peter's hands was on the back of his neck, now, the other at his waist. "Any possibilities you need your mind opened for, Dr. Spengler?"

"Call me Egon," the physicist responded weakly as Peter pulled him closer. Their lips met, and Egon could have sworn that steam rose from their heat.

"Aren't you worried that one of your teammates will see you?" protested Egon as they parted.

"Nah, they've all left campus by now. Although," Peter acknowledged, "it might be a good idea to get out of the cold. Here," he dragged them towards the library, "I know a spot that'll be perfect for you."

"They're closed," Egon objected, but Peter only grinned again. Leading the older man by the hand, he took them around to a side door held closed by a combination lock. Peter twirled the dial, left, right, left, and tugged; the lock popped open. "Never changed it from the default. The same trick opens half the lockers." Peter pulled the door ajar and slipped inside, beckoning Egon to follow.

The door opened into a short, musty corridor with store-rooms on either side. Egon peered through the wire-glass windows. Metal shelving with peeling grey-green paint held row after row of bound periodicals, stacked in here after being replaced by microfilm, no doubt, and left to rot. Peter stepped in behind him, wrapping his arms around Egon's waist. "These are boring. Engineering stuff from the early '50s, before Sputnik made science cool again." He chuckled. "Not that I would admit to finding science cool in any era. But c'mere."

Venkman ducked into another storage room, and Egon followed. The lights in here were dim and flickering; Egon wondered whether the wiring was damaged. Then his eyes lit on the shelves. "Philosophy and religion," he mused, touching the cracked spines of the bound magazines and pamphlets.

"From the turn of the century to about when we were born," agreed Peter. He pointed at a shelf near to the floor, and Spengler crouched to look.

A broad grin, a rarity on him, spread across his face. "Spiritualism," he murmured, "and some of Fort's research. I don't remember seeing these in the microfilm archives."

"Yeah, I think some of this stuff has just been lost." Peter's voice was light, but his eyes were twinkling.

Egon stood back up. "Peter, thank you. But I wouldn't have guessed, from earlier, that you had a quiet evening of reading on your mind." The grin canted to one side.

Venkman let out a short bark of laughter. "You picked up on that, did you? You're not quite as socially clueless as I thought you might be, then." He put both hands on Egon's chest and pushed him, gently, firmly, against the back wall of the room. Egon didn't know what to do with his hands, so he settled for putting them at Peter's waist. That seemed to work; at least, Peter returned the gesture and leaned in for another kiss, long and wet. Egon tentatively snuck his tongue out; Peter opened his mouth slightly to let him in and sighed, a soft, vulnerable sound that made Egon want to wrap the younger man in his arms and protect him from the world.

That was silly, wasn't it? Egon was the nerd, the geeky, skinny kid in glasses who'd been beaten up in the schoolyard until he'd designed a concealable electrical device that shocked anyone who hit him bare-handed. Peter was tough, athletic, strong-limbed, able to dish it out and take it both verbally and physically. The only things Egon had on him were age, which didn't mean that much, and height, which might have, except that Peter wasn't that much shorter.

The memory of Peter staring into the world of his momentary vision swam into Egon's mind. The image of Peter curled into a ball on the vending lounge bench, wet and shivering but not from the cold, took his breath away. He tightened his grip on the younger man; there were some things everyone needed protection from, and perhaps Egon was better equipped for an assault on one's mind, after all.

Peter's hands drifted downward, and suddenly Egon's thoughts became a lot less coherent.

"Holy shit." Peter laughed, his mouth still against Egon's. "Just out of curiosity, how long has it been since Dr. Spengler has gotten laid?"

"The question is poorly defined," gasped Egon as Peter's hand pressed firmly against his erection through a pair of trousers that were suddenly much too tight.

Peter pulled back just enough to look the taller man directly in the eyes. "I'm asking you when the last time you had sex was. With someone other than your hand, I mean." His eyes were laughter and steel; he was playing with Egon, but he wasn't about to let him get out of answering.

"Null set," answered Egon, squirming towards Peter's touch.

Peter stepped back. "You're a virgin?"

"Yes," Egon responded simply, waiting for Peter's reaction.

The younger man paused, then leaned up against Egon, pressing their bodies together from feet to shoulders. He felt just as hard though his jeans as Egon imagined he was himself. "You mean, I'm letting myself be seduced by an older man, and I'm the more experienced partner?" Peter chuckled; the vibrations in his chest made the hair on Egon's arms stand on end. "Oh, this is gonna be great."

He rolled his hips against Egon's. The physicist closed his eyes and moaned, the analytical part of his mind completely consumed with observing and cataloging the new sensations he was experiencing.

"Mmm, don't zone out on me, Egon, move with me here." Peter rocked his hips against him again, and Egon tried to copy the movement, with the same frequency but just slightly out of phase. "There you go. Do that again." They did. "You're catching on quick." They ground against each other, slowly but with increasing speed. "Oh, yeah. You got it. Keep going." Peter's face was flushed, his pupils blown, his hair in messy disarray; Egon ran a hand up the back of his head and tousled it further. The scientist wondered what he must look like.

Peter thrust into him once, sharply, and then slid down the length of Egon, landing in a kneel at his feet. "Peter, what -" Egon started, thinking he'd done something wrong, when Peter started undoing his belt.

"You feel like you're pretty close to the party ending already, and I wanna do a little more than dry-humping for our first date, here." Peter licked his lips suggestively. _Oh._ Egon had seen pictorial representations of that particular sex act before, but it had always seemed rather abstract to him. Suddenly it was becoming very, very concrete. By the time he'd processed that, Peter had his buckle open and his fly undone, and was untucking his genitals from his boxers, and the hand closing on Egon's erection completely derailed his train of thought.

"Oh, god, Peter," he gasped, "_please_ \- "

"I aim to," grinned the younger man, and then his tongue ran slowly around the scar the mohel left. Egon stiffened, his hands clutching at the wall for purchase.

"You can put your hands on my head, I don't mind," said Peter, his breath tingling along the wet skin. He licked the head of Egon's phallus again, his tongue curling against the softer spot where it met the shaft, and then closed his mouth over it.

Egon's right hand closed in Peter's hair, as if Peter's words had put it there; Egon didn't remember moving it. His other hand found the edge of one of the shelves, and he clung to it desperately to stay upright as his knees buckled. "Peter, oh, god, Peter."

Peter looked upwards at him, eyes glittering. One of those hands, roughened by the handle of a bat and maybe harder work before that, curled around the base of Egon's shaft, pumping him in time with the motions of Peter's tongue. The other slid around the top of Egon's thigh, cupping one buttock and squeezing gently.

"_Oh,_ god." Egon swallowed. He felt like his spine was melting, like he was on fire from knees to navel, like his second chakra was a fusion reactor and it was about to overload.

Peter bobbed his head and drew Egon further into his mouth. Egon could feel the muscles in his cheeks and soft palate quivering and moving around his erection. "_Peter._" Three seconds to meltdown, two, one . . .

Egon was faintly aware that he was sliding down the wall, that he was shouting wordless noises of blessed _release_, that Peter's mouth was still on him. That his orgasm was two measures of 5/4 time, ten beats total. That the shelving was digging into his fingers. But none of that _mattered_. He was a pillar of pulsing light, and Peter was glowing like a star, and the two of them were the same liquid energy, flowing into each other and back out again, and still separate.

_So **this** is what the fuss is all about,_ the last analytical scrap of his mind thought, as Peter's energy rippled through him. Then he was lost, wordless and numberless, in the indescribable joy of it.

When he blinked his way back to normal consciousness, his own heartbeat singing in his ears, he was on the floor, half-sitting, half-leaning against the wall, and Peter was more or less in his lap. "Hey, Egon? Spengs? You still in there?" Peter pressed his lips to his, and made a contented noise as Egon kissed him back. He tasted salty.

"I am, quite possibly, more 'in here' in this moment than I have been for most of my life." Egon nuzzled Peter just below the ear. "And I think I have an idea of how human PKE energy fields work."

"Huh?" Peter pulled back, a slightly hurt look on his face.

"But that's not important right now." Egon pressed a kiss to Peter's throat, turned him parallel to the aisle they were sitting in, and lowered him gently to the floor. The younger man's skin seemed to vibrate with the unseen energy Egon had just glimpsed. "Tell me if I'm doing this wrong."

"As long as you don't bite down, it's kinda hard to do it wrong," Peter commented, raising his head to watch as Egon wrestled with the button on his jeans. "God, Egon, have you ever even _come_ before? I've never seen _anyone_ look like that before. I thought you were gonna pass out for a moment there."

"Yes, although it's always been self-administered, and I generally think of that as a waste of time better spent in the lab." Egon tugged the heavy denim out of the way and then did the same to the front of Peter's briefs. "It's been a month or so."

"A _month_?" squeaked Peter, although it was hard to tell if his tone of voice was due to shock or to Egon's stroking his erection. "Dammit, Spengs, I get antsy if - ahh, do that again - if I go for three days."

"You lack focus, Peter." Egon's long, thin fingers danced around Peter's shaft. "I've generally not thought of myself as a sexual creature at all. My interest in you is an anomaly, for me." He ducked his head down and licked the shaft slowly from head to root with the tip of his tongue; Peter quivered and moaned. "I wasn't about to lose consciousness completely, although I think I may have entered an altered state." He brushed his nose against the curls of dark hair, inhaling Peter's musk, his breath warming the younger man's darkened skin.

"Can we talk about that later?" Peter pleaded, wriggling under Egon's touch.

"Certainly." Egon carefully closed his lips around Peter's cock and tried to replay what Peter had done with his tongue earlier.

"Egon, oh, fuck, yes, more," Peter gasped, each word punctuated with its own sharp breath. Both his hands found Egon's head and snarled in his hair, pushing him softly and smoothly down. "Dear, god, harder, yes." Egon tasted the salt of Peter's skin and felt the veins under his tongue, held Peter's bucking hips down with one hand and slid the other into his jeans to caress his balls. "Oh, Christ, fuck, _yes!_"

Egon's hands kept working. Experimentally, he tried to relax the muscles at the back of his mouth to take all of Peter's shaft in. It didn't quite work - there was still a point past which it was going to trigger his gag reflex - but Peter seemed to enjoy it immensely. At least, his one-word outbursts became both more energetic and more profane.

He glanced up. It was a little hard to see over Peter's heaving chest, but the younger man's eyes were glazed, staring at the ceiling. His mouth was open between syllables, panting, gasping. His facade - that casual, uncaring jock - was completely gone; he was open and raw, and every fiber of him sang with _need_.

The two bodies of light flickered at the edge of Egon's vision again, and he could feel Peter's energy flowing like a river around him. He curled his tongue around Peter's shaft and sucked harder. Peter's whole body went rigid, and the single syllables became an incoherent growl.

The first spurt took Egon slightly by surprise. Peter's orgasm was seven beats long, at least the ones Egon could feel and taste. Something - whether it was the energy flow he'd sensed earlier or just the pounding of his own blood - rushed in Egon's ears. This felt almost as good as his own orgasm had. The growl resolved into "Oh, _fuck_, Egon," and the sound of his own name in Peter's mouth plucked something in him, as if his heart were vibrating.

Peter's hands released Egon's head and tugged at his shoulders. He pushed himself up on his hands and knees and scooted himself over until his head was even with Peter's; he curled up next to him on the industrial carpet. Peter forced his eyes to focus, rolled over, and kissed him again. "Just because I swallowed, I didn't mean for you to think you had to."

"It - wasn't unpleasant." Egon bumped his nose against Peter's. "I think I may have had a paranormal experience, just now."

"Nah, that's just afterglow." Peter buried his face in Egon's neck, his breath warm against his cooling skin.

"Perhaps." Egon wrapped one arm around Peter's shoulders, pulling the young man closer. "Clearly we need more data. I would suggest further experimentation, possibly with recording devices."

"That's _kinky_, Egon!" Peter pushed himself up on one arm and looked down into Spengler's face. "I think I like this plan. I'm definitely in favor of the 'further experimentation' part."

Egon pulled himself to half-sitting. "You referred to this as a 'date' earlier. I don't think it actually qualifies, at least not by the standard definition. I've never actually had one."

Venkman smirked. "Well, then, you can take me out for pizza and it'll qualify."

"Could we possibly go back to my apartment afterwards and . . . work on our experimental protocol?" Spengler smirked back, a lopsided, twisty expression.

"I think that could happen. Lead the way, Dr. Mad Scientist," Peter added, as they scrambled to their feet, re-adjusted their clothing, and headed for the door, laughing together.


End file.
